


Trial and Error

by Raspberry_Blond



Series: Satisfaction Guaranteed [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Romance, crackish fic, fluffyangstything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-06
Updated: 2012-10-06
Packaged: 2017-11-15 18:54:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/530552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raspberry_Blond/pseuds/Raspberry_Blond
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What do you get for the man who has everything? How about a ready-made temporary relationship with the man of his dreams?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trial and Error

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place in an unspecified time period after "A Scandal in Belgravia" but before "The Hound of Baskerville"

Mycroft Holmes was not used to being surprised.

 

He had an entire network of _associates_ to prevent his ever being caught off-guard. Literally the fate of his nation, along with others, depended on his being several dozen steps ahead of everyone else.

 

Yes, the fact that he was often _not_ surprised could be somewhat dull, but it was essential for a man in his position.

 

So, as he gazed upon one Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade of Scotland Yard, who was standing in his office grinning as if he'd just been granted the crown jewels, Mycroft wondered whether he was simply losing his touch – or his mind.

 

“You are _what_?”

 

“Your birthday gift,” the man repeated, smiling wider. He gestured toward his trousers and Mycroft steadfastly refused to follow the motion. He'd already seen what was there when the inspector had unbuttoned his coat. There was a tasteful burgundy bow wrapped round his thigh, the loops ending precariously close to, well …

 

“My … gift?” Mycroft felt a migraine approaching. “I'm not sure I follow, Detective Inspector.”

 

He retreated into the stilted formalities, glad to have a barrier of sorts between himself and the gift-wrapped law enforcement officer, because _this_? _This_ was, to coin a phrase from his infuriating younger brother, “not his area.”

 

His eyes narrowed at the thought of Sherlock, and an uneasy thought crossed his mind at light speed.

 

“How did you know it was my birthday? Did Sherlock –”

 

“– Tell me? Yep.” Greg Lestrade nodded. “This was his idea. He said he wasn't sure what to give you as a present, since you bloody well have everything, and then he came up with this ...”

 

Mycroft sighed very, very softly and picked up his phone to dial his personal assistant.

 

“Anthea? I'm going to have to reschedule my 2 p.m. Yes … let's say tomorrow at half one. Please relay my apologies to Mr. Annan and thank him for the lovely birthday card.”

 

Greg looked duly impressed when Mycroft hung up the phone.

 

“It's all go for you here, innit? Isn't he trying to save the Middle East or some-such? And he finds time to ring and send a card?”

 

“He's a lovely man. Writes the most interesting poetry,” Mycroft murmured, before returning to business. “Detective Inspector, I'm not sure in what game my brother has you mired, but –”

 

“It's no game. It's your birthday. He wanted to give you a present.” Greg shrugged. “He's your brother, after all.”

 

The pending migraine bloomed into pinpricks of discomfort behind his eyes. Mycroft shut his eyes briefly and massaged the bridge of his nose.

 

“Detective Inspector, the last time my brother deigned to acknowledge my birthday, I had just turned 14. He was seven. The 'gift' was a decomposing badger that he'd dissected himself. He was quite proud. He'd even wrapped it in a smart gift box with a card that was unusually sentimental for him.”

 

Gregory chuckled. “What'd you say when he gave it to you?”

 

“I praised his scalpel technique,” said Mycroft calmly, “and then buried it in the garden amongst our mother's prized foxgloves. I did keep the card, but he destroyed it years later in a fit of childish pique. So you see, the association of Sherlock and gift-giving is not one that I relish.”

 

“Noted. But on the other hand, I'm alive, not cut open, and all my parts are there. And still work.”

 

Greg cast another meaningful glance downward in the direction of the ribbon, and looked up, grinning at him through lowered lashes.

 

Mycroft swallowed air and let his breath out slowly between his teeth.

 

“Detective Inspector, I'm not sure what you and my brother are playing at, but I assure you, I don't find it funny.”

 

“Ah, bloody hell. I was afraid you'd react this way.” Greg's coy expression faded and he dropped into a nearby chair. “What, was the ribbon a bit much?”

 

“I don't think I need to answer that.” Mycroft eyed him warily. “You didn't tie that yourself. The loops are too uniform and it has the precise amount of slack to allow it to stay affixed, but not constrain you. If you'd tied it on your own, you would have either made it too loose or too tight.”

 

Greg actually blushed. “Right, well, I may have asked John ...”

 

The pinpricks of discomfort sharpened, and Mycroft grimaced. He schooled his expression into one of impassivity, not wanting the detective to know how much pain he was in physically and emotionally. It wouldn't be good to let Sherlock know just how his little prank had affected him.

 

He knew his brother resented him, but he'd always fancied that Sherlock didn't outright despise him. To have his illusions in that regard shattered – and on his birthday, no less – was more devastating than he cared to admit.

 

“So. You, my brother and the good doctor all joined forces for a laugh at my expense. How collegial.”

 

Lestrade cursed sharply beneath his breath. “Will you listen to me? It's not a bloody joke! I'm … this is my fault. Sherlock _told_ me that I couldn't come in here like a knobhead, flirting and carrying on, but I guess I just … I wanted to make you smile. Instead I just cocked it all up.”

 

His silvery head slumped and he sounded defeated. “I know that you can have all of MI-bloody-5 in here with just a crook of your finger, but before you toss me out on my arse, can I at least _explain_ to you what's going on?”

 

The older Holmes stared at the bowed head. He deduced instantly that Gregory was distressed and upset. That didn't follow with the idea that it was all an elaborate joke. He would have been embarrassed and upset at the failure of a joke, not genuinely unhappy and depressed.

 

Mycroft considered that for a moment and sighed.

 

“Detective Inspector, despite my better judgment, I'll listen to what you have to say. Provided that you remain _seated_.”

 

Greg looked up quickly, licking his lips. Mycroft blinked and looked away.

 

Right. So maybe that wasn't the best idea after all.

 

“Thanks. Well, about a week ago, I had your brother and John down the pub for a swift half, and ...”

 

“Aha.” Mycroft rested his chin on steepled fingers. “So am I to assume that whatever plan was conceived this night was done so under the influence of copious amounts of alcohol?”

 

Greg flushed. “Well, John and I might've been in our cups a bit, but we weren't all that pissed. Your brother was stone sober. Only had tonic.”

 

“I see. Go on.”

 

“Well, Sherlock was mucking about on his mobile, doing research for some experiment, so John and I got to chatting. I asked him about the girl I'd seen him with around Christmas. Wondered how that was going,” said Greg. “He told me that it'd gone into the skip awhile ago. Apparently they didn't really get on as well as he'd thought they did.”

 

Mycroft hid a smile. “Didn't really get on” most certainly equaled “Sherlock interposed himself between the couple in some way and John chose him unthinkingly.”

 

“I see. So you and John were discussing relationships gone awry.”

 

“I suppose you could put it that way. He wasn't pining for her or anything, so I guess it was just as well that it went tits up.” Greg looked at him again. “But John said … he said that sometimes he wished there was … you know, a shop. A shop where you could go in, talk up your ideal partner, and then there she is – or he is –”

 

“– I rather thought that was the purpose of online dating.”

 

A grin lit up the handsome detective's face. “That's what _I_ said. Although, that can be tricky, too. Sally's told me some horror stories. People lie their arses off online, apparently. But anyway John said that's not what he meant. He meant a shop where you could find _exactly_ who you were looking for, but maybe there's a time limit. Say, a week or two. At the end of it, if you don't get on, you part ways amicably and they go back to the shop. You know, the way you return a jumper that you don't fancy or that doesn't fit. But if you do get on, you carry on, and maybe it becomes something serious and special.”

 

Mycroft's eyebrows rose. “Dr. Watson is indeed becoming my brother's partisan. Even Sherlock's sociopathic tendencies are rubbing off on him.”

 

Lestrade stared at him. “Eh?”

 

“Treating people and relationships as commodities?” Mycroft's tone was incredulous. “I rather thought the former was outlawed in this realm centuries ago, and the latter … well, while it's true that the high-born often mate for reasons other than love, such antiquities are largely frowned upon by enlightened members of society.”

 

“I don't think John was trying to make a case for the return of the slave trade or arranged marriages.” Greg's voice was dry. “He was a little pissed, was all. He didn't fancy the bird, but he wasn't happy about how it ended. He said he tried to ring a few times to apologize but she wasn't keen. His point was that maybe it wouldn't be too bad to try on a relationship for size for a bit. Like an agreed-on trial period at the very start, even before you start going out. Then at the end, both people can decide whether to continue or to go their own ways without anyone being hurt or surprised.”

 

“Sort of like an agreement on a flat to let.” Mycroft felt suddenly deflated. He wasn't sure why, but he'd gone from being annoyed to being a little sad. “And you truly don't see a problem with this?”

 

“No, I … I didn't think it'd be good, the way John was describing it.” Lestrade squirmed a little. “I knew what he was getting at, but he wasn't explaining it quite right, I think. Then your brother mentioned that a better option would be a shop where you could choose someone you fancy as sort of a temporary lover. Like, there's no thought that there will be anything after the period of time you've chosen is up. You have a boyfriend or a girlfriend for a fortnight or a month or what have you, and at the end, it's over. Even if you _do_ get on, once the time is up, back to the shop they go.”

 

“Like hiring a car.” Mycroft's head was pounding now. “And this is different from Dr. Watson's idea … _how_?”

 

Greg was quiet for a moment. “I guess not very.”

 

“Precisely.”

 

There was silence for a minute. Lestrade gnawed his lip a moment, looking a bit like a recalcitrant school boy, Mycroft thought. It was endearing. It was sexy. It was –

 

 _No. Mustn't concentrate on how exquisite he is. This is ridiculous. Why would Sherlock do this? Why? And why would Lestrade agree_?

 

“But Sherlock said … well ...” Greg lifted his head. “He said that maybe the next big industry would be something like this. Temporary lovers. Maybe you don't fancy a big relationship at the moment. You're in uni or you're not sure whether you're going to be staying where you are, or you have a job where you don't meet a lot of people. Or you're just getting over a divorce ...”

 

Mycroft's eyebrow rose. “Hmm.”

 

“... But you want _something_. More than a one-off shag but less than 'Oi, let's look at rings today, yeah?' Someone in your life who makes getting up in the morning a little less of a bag of wank. And when it's over, you have a better understanding of what you want, maybe. Or you're less sad and lonely. Or less _something_. So it all works out.”

 

The tall man nodded thoughtfully. “I think I can fill in the rest of the evening. Sherlock became enamored of his hypothesis but needed to test it. And he settled on _me_ as the test subject and _you_ as the … bait.”

 

Greg's smile was lopsided. “He said that if anyone would go in for something like this, it'd be you. You don't form long attachments, he said, but you don't fancy casual shags. You'd probably get bored after a fortnight with any one person, though, but it'd be a nice way to fill your time when you're not jetting off to Qatar or wherever.”

 

Mycroft Holmes said nothing. He wondered if this was, in fact, some sort of retaliation by Sherlock because of the whole situation with Irene Adler. Had Sherlock stumbled on the truth of The Woman's death? Did he loathe his older brother for getting him embroiled in that disaster? Did he blame Mycroft for her death? Had he loved her? Was that what this was? Sherlock dangling the fruit of Mycroft's fantasies in front of him, and telling him it was for a limited time only, just as his time with Adler had been?

 

“Why?” Mycroft asked suddenly. “I can see my brother wanting to humiliate me in such a manner, but why would _you_ agree to this farce? What have I done to you to make you dislike me so?”

 

Greg shook his head. “You've got it wrong. I volunteered.”

 

“… Pardon me?”

 

“Sherlock said it was a shame that those sort of shops didn't exist because you had a birthday coming up, and a boyfriend for a fortnight would be an ideal gift.” Lestrade shrugged slightly. “I might have mentioned that I wouldn't mind being given to you as a gift.”

 

Mycroft only just kept his mouth from dropping open.

 

“You – you cannot be serious.”

 

“Mycroft, I came in here with a bow tied right below my –”

 

“I'm aware.”

 

“Look, I know you're not stupid,” said Greg in a low voice. “I fancy you. I have for years. I know you know that.”

 

The elder Holmes's shoulders relaxed a bit. “I know you feel a certain … respect for me.”

 

“That and I want to shag you into a stack of mattresses. Yeah.”

 

 _No … I will not take out the pocket square and wipe my forehead. No! Mind over matter_.

 

“Detective Inspector … eight months ago, you were married – albeit not happily – to a _woman_ ...”

 

“Give over that lark,” Lestrade said sourly. “You're smarter than Sherlock. I know you've _deduced_ that I'm attracted to blokes, too.”

 

Mycroft's lips twisted slightly. “Be that as it may, I've also _deduced_ that the last time you were in any way intimate with someone of your gender, you'd not yet reached your majority.”

 

The detective chewed on that for a moment.

 

“So you're saying that because I haven't been with a bloke since me and one of my football mates gobbled each other off when we were 15, that I can't fancy _you_ 30 years later?”

 

“I am saying that it is unlikely,” said Mycroft carefully. “Yes.”

 

“No.” Greg breathed out. “Look. You're the sort of bloke that I go for. Always did like gingers with freckles all over. Like that you're tall, too. And you're so bloody fit in those posh suits. Sherlock's mad to say that you need to diet. He just does it as a windup, I think.”

 

Mycroft ducked his head, hoping the blush on his cheeks didn't show.

 

“ _Everything_ he does is as a 'windup,' in some shape or form, Detective Inspector. Surely you became aware of that when you consulted him on that domestic that wasn't ...”

 

“Don't try to change the subject.” Greg was looking at him intently. “You fancy me, too. I can hardly believe it, but it's true.”

 

Mycroft knew that by not meeting the man's gaze, he'd be confirming his assertion. He forced himself to stare unblinkingly into the endless brown of Lestrade's eyes and willed himself to not sweat.

 

“And you arrived at that conclusion …?”

 

“If all this is an experiment for Sherlock, he wouldn't bang on with it if he didn't think there was some chance of success. What'd be the point? And why me? He might've talked John into doing it in exchange for keeping his collection of fingers out of the pantry or something. But when I volunteered, he jumped on it.” Greg shrugged. “So that means he knows that you think I'm a bit of all right.”

 

 _And he calls this man a fool_? Mycroft allowed himself to marvel at the detective's own display of deductive reasoning, but kept his expression neutral.

 

“We're adults here,” said the politician. “I see no need to nance about. Yes, I find you attractive. I also was aware of your attraction to me. I understood that as you were married, you were not free to act on it. But I never expected that you would ever act on it at all.”

 

“I probably wouldn't've done on my own,” Greg admitted. “This gives me my chance.”

 

“Allowing Sherlock to gift you to me as a companion for a fortnight? _That's_ giving you your chance?”

 

Mycroft almost laughed. It was almost too ridiculous to be believed. The entire conversation was surreal.

 

But Greg didn't laugh. He didn't even crack a smile.

 

“Yeah. It is. Like I said, until Sherlock came up with this idea, I didn't think you could ever fancy me.”

 

Mycroft sat back in his chair and allowed his eyes to roam the landscape that was Gregory Etienne Lestrade. The silvery hair contrasting so sharply with the still-youthful face. Those beautiful brown eyes, so sparkling with vitality, innocent, almost, despite having seen just about every instance of human depravity and suffering that it was possible to see. Still in good shape, even with the slight paunch that was beginning to make itself evident.

 

The man was devastatingly handsome and was gazed at longingly by many of his NSY colleagues. Could he truly be serious about wanting him? Mycroft didn't want to dare hope. The uneasy feeling he had that this was a message from Sherlock somehow still niggled at him.

 

“Whyever not? You're very physically attractive, you're quite resourceful, and despite my brother's rantings, you _are_ intelligent and rather good at your job.”

 

“And _you_ get birthday cards from people like Kofi-fucking-Annan!” Greg looked eager. “Can I see it? Or is it, y'know, classified, and that?”

 

Smiling despite himself, Mycroft opened the top drawer of his desk and drew out the simply decorated card. Greg took it as if he were handling the original Magna Carta, his lips moving as he read the personally inscribed message therein.

 

Mycroft found his silent reading adorable.

 

Greg shook his head in amazement when he handed it over again. “I bet you got something from Her Majesty, too, yeah?”

 

Mycroft hesitated just a moment. “That arrangement of fruit you were admiring when my assistant showed you in ...”

 

“ _Arrangement_ of fruit? I thought someone had ransacked an orange grove!” Greg chuckled humorlessly. “You get clementines and pomegranates from the Queen of England and cards from top diplomats, and you're not _sure_ why a grizzled old copper who walks through other people's blood every day, lost everything but his pants in a divorce, and lives in a flat that's just a tick above council housing thinks he has no shot with you? You're not the sort of bloke I could just invite down for a pint.”

 

“But you _could_ gift-wrap yourself and come to my office claiming to be my birthday gift?”

 

Lestrade colored. “Right. I take your point.”

 

“I'm not certain that you do, but that's not of a consequence,” said Mycroft. “How much did Sherlock pay you?”

 

“Sorry, what?” Lestrade looked startled.

 

“He _purchased_ you as my 'gift,' did he not? How much exchanged hands? Or was it an agreement of some kind? He will take any case you throw at him for a specified period in exchange for _this_?”

 

Gregory Lestrade went deathly pale.

 

“Oh fucking Christ, I … it's not like that.”

 

He stood up suddenly, clutching his coat to him like a lifeline.

 

“This was stupid. This was so bleeding, ridiculously _stupid_. I'm … I'm sorry. I'll show myself out –”

 

“Sit _down_ , Detective Inspector.” Mycroft stared him back into the seat. “So, there was no quid pro quo here? Goods or services?”

 

“God. _No_. Like I said, I volunteered.” Lestrade covered his face with the palm of his hand. “I saw it as a chance to finally get close to you and I figured why not, if Sherlock was serious. I wouldn't've taken _money_ or anything. I'm not that much of a bell-end.”

 

“Then what _do_ you get out of this?” asked Mycroft, honestly puzzled.

 

Greg was quiet for many, many moments. When he next spoke, his voice was soft yet filled with a palpable sadness.

 

“Do you remember when Sherlock helped us catch that arsonist? Must've been a month, maybe two, before John came on the scene?”

 

Mycroft nodded. A nasty business, that. Several convalescent homes had been torched, and three people had died. Sherlock had tracked the miscreant – a nurse who as a child had been put in a series of homes after her elderly grandmother had accidentally started a fire that burned down the family home and killed the nurse's parents – and had nearly been immolated for his pains.

 

“Right. I saw you there, and we talked, remember? Sherlock was being looked over, and you and I just jawed like ordinary blokes even though we'd both been out of our minds with worry over Sherlock,” said Greg. “And at one point, you looked at me … and I … I wanted to snog you.”

 

The elder Holmes wasn't aware that he'd been holding his breath until that moment.

 

“I did,” continued Greg in that same subdued tone. “I would've done. If you'd even beckoned at me with that ruddy umbrella of yours, I would've snogged the life out of you and dragged you into that ruddy car you kidnap people in and shagged you until neither of us could fucking _think_. I wanted it so bad I could taste it … could taste _you_. And I felt like the biggest twat in the world.”

 

Mycroft nodded once. “Because of your marriage vows ...”

 

“I won't lie. I've had fantasies about other people while I was married to Karen. I'm not blind. But I never thought about acting on them. Until you …” Mycroft heard Greg swallow. “It scared the piss out of me. I had to get away ...”

 

Mycroft remembered. Lestrade had gotten the oddest look on his face, babbled something about needing to check in with his sergeant, and had run as if his pants had caught fire. Mycroft had found it a touch strange, but there'd been Sherlock to look after and he'd dismissed it as Lestrade wanting to get to the end of a difficult case.

 

“I got home that night and I … I was all over my wife,” said Greg, looking away. “But not because I was horny. And not because I felt guilty. I wanted … I asked her to shag _me_. She had toys … you know. I wasn't supposed to know about them. Don't understand why, since her diddling herself with a plastic cock is a sight better than her going out and fucking a ruddy PE teacher.”

 

Greg was breathing heavily, and his gaze was on the floor.

 

“I … I wanted her to bugger me. So I could pretend it was you.”

 

He slowly brought his head up to look at Mycroft.

 

Mycroft, for his part, said nothing, but his eyes asked Lestrade to continue.

 

“Do you understand?” his voice was rough. “I was going to let her do me up the arse and fantasize that it was really you I was in bed with. I was going to close my eyes and imagine it was your cock filling me … stretching me …”

 

Mycroft clamped his lips shut. He was coming shockingly close to making a sound _quite_ unbecoming to one of Her Majesty's ministers. It should be criminal for someone to have _that voice_.

 

“... I knew I was going to have to concentrate to keep from screaming your name.” Greg's voice had turned arousingly raspy. “And I knew that I was going to come like a bloody freight train. I thought … it would help. That I could tell myself I knew what it'd be like to shag you, and I could get over whatever mad crush or whatever it was, and face you normally without wanting to chew your lips off.”

 

There was a long pause. Mycroft studied the other man for a moment, trying to will the nascent bulge in his trousers to go away. Greg sat there, his head canted slightly, eyes drifting shut at the memory. Mycroft was sure the other man was aroused, but perhaps not as much as he was at that moment.

 

“She refused you,” he said softly, when Lestrade said nothing. “More than that: She was disgusted.”

 

Greg's eyes snapped wide. “Bang on. We rowed for hours and she went to sleep in the guest room. I tossed off and moaned your name anyway, so it was probably just as well. We didn't talk about it. She probably started bouncing on Matt or Pat, or whatever the fuck his name is, the next day.

 

“But you know what? I wasn't angry that she said no. Because I knew it wouldn't have helped. It would've gotten me off, but I would've wanted more. I would've still wanted you. So you ask what I get out of this? A fair few fantasies fulfilled. The chance to get to know you. Two things I never thought would or could happen otherwise. So, no, your brother didn't have to bribe me. This is my own pull. Maybe not the idea, but me being here on your desk wrapped in a bloody bow? I've been waiting _years_ for the chance.”

 

Mycroft took out his pocket watch and glanced at it. He had meetings, very important meetings, stacked up all day. All but one would need to be postponed.

 

When he looked up, he saw Gregory peering at him, looking as if he was expecting to be thrown bodily out of the office.

 

He looked at the watch again. Perhaps many of tomorrow's meetings would have to be postponed, as well.

 

With a weary shrug, Mycroft said: “My brother would know that I'd find the idea that I must be 'gifted' companionship … to be … _offensive_ … in the extreme ...”

 

Gregory opened his mouth, but Mycroft waved at him to shut it.

 

“However – and it pains me to admit it – Sherlock does know me better than anyone alive. He's quite right that if this sort of service were extant, it would appeal to me.” Mycroft's eyes were hazy. “I don't form attachments easily. I've never done. I am frequently out of the country and there are things that I cannot share with another soul. That puts many people off, I've found. Yet, I enjoy being partnered, not just for the obvious reasons.”

 

He lifted a brow and Gregory grinned.

 

“But it comes with a cost. There was a man. A Greek interpreter. He had occasion to use my office for … well, that's not important.” Mycroft's expression hardened at the memory. “He and I were mutually attracted. I informed him that it could not – ever – be anything very serious. He agreed.”

 

There was silence. Greg leaned forward, eyes somber. “What happened, Mycroft?”

 

“After three lovely weeks, I felt our liaison had reached its natural conclusion.” Mycroft paused. “He had fallen in love with me. I did have strong feelings, but they weren't those. I reminded him of our arrangement and bid him farewell.”

 

“And?”

 

“Two weeks later, I received word that he'd hanged himself. He sent me a note. I read it once and then burned it.” He exhaled slowly. “This was three years ago. I've not been with anyone since.”

 

Greg looked stricken. “I'm sorry. That's … I can't imagine. But you can't blame yourself. You did _tell_ him ...”

 

“... And I _knew_ he wouldn't listen. I knew it from the outset. I could deduce that he thought I would change my mind and that he would not believe me until I was physically out of his sphere. Yet, I wanted him. So I ignored my own deductions,” said Mycroft, feeling his stomach roll. “I was selfish and I cost a man his life. I could have said no. He would still be alive had I done.”

 

“Mycroft, you can't possibly know that.”

 

The taller man's eyes were steely. “Detective Inspector, I am a Holmes. Of _course_ I can.”

 

“Well.” Greg sat back in his chair. “No offense, but I'd not end it all over you, Mycroft Holmes. Never mind if your arse is like a work of art.”

 

Mycroft couldn't bend his head in time to hide the blush. “Ah … Detective Inspector –”

 

“Oh, for fuck's sake! Give over this 'Detective Inspector' bilge! I just admitted I wanted my wife to bugger me with a plastic cock so I could imagine it was _you_ fucking the life out of me.” Greg rolled his eyes. “You're a smart bloke. I know 'Greg' isn't too hard for you to manage.”

 

“I don't know,” said Mycroft softly. “It seems as if 'Greg' would be difficult, indeed, for me to manage.”

 

Lestrade smiled. “Well, it'd only be for 30 days ...”

 

Mycroft frowned. “I thought it was a fortnight.”

 

“No, I told Sherlock I've never had an actual relationship that short. I've had one-offs, but the shortest I've ever been romantically involved was a bit more than a month. So I reckoned 30 days might work.”

 

Mycroft squeezed his eyes shut. “Det – Greg … this is madness ...”

 

“Yeah, maybe. But I want you.” His voice was frank. “I've been building you up in my mind for years. Maybe it won't be as grand as I've imagined. Maybe at the end of the 30 days we'll both be glad to be shot of each other. I dunno. But I'd like to find out. You have my word that you won't get any suicide notes from me and that at the end, we'll part peacefully.”

 

Mycroft glared silently at the silver-haired man. “You say this _now_ ...”

 

“And I mean it,” said Lestrade. “Look, I don't know if a year from now, I'll not want another go with a woman. Or to have kids, or whathaveyou. I _do_ know that right now, this minute, I want you so badly my arms ache. Thirty days where we mean something to each other … at worst, I'll get it out of my system and you'll have a bit of fun, too. At best ...”

 

He paused. Mycroft waited.

 

“At best … we'll have some nice times and phenomenal shagging that we'll remember the rest of our lives and we'll become friends after. Actual friends. I'd really like that.”

 

The politician bit the inside of his cheek. Sherlock might despise him, might want to belittle him for his own purposes – _but_ he didn't hate Greg. Despite all his protestations to the contrary, Mycroft knew his little brother respected and liked Lestrade – one of the few people that held Sherlock's regard in that way. He would not, therefore, use Greg as a pawn to humiliate him, not knowing his feelings, and Mycroft was certain Sherlock had known of Greg's attraction at least as long as he himself had known. If Greg had come on his own volition, it'd be one thing, but for this to be sanctioned by Sherlock _and_ John, Mycroft knew something else had to be afoot.

 

His brother was _up_ to something. And the only way to find out what it was … was to be Gregory Lestrade's boyfriend for 30 days.

 

Mycroft sat up straighter. “Gregory. You must understand something. This is not telly or an Austen novel or one of those insipid American love-movies. If I enter into this … agreement, do not expect me to come to you after this is over dying of love for you and wanting to make a life with you. If you are doing this in hopes that over the 30-day period, we will fall head over heels in love and declare our joy in front of God, witnesses, and the Archbishop of Canterbury, then you should, in fact, leave now. Because I am telling you here and now, that _will not happen_. I will not repeat myself.”

 

Gregory bit his lip. Nodded.

 

“I understand. And like I said, I'll take what I can get. Thirty days of you and then done, is better than no days of you and me wondering forever what it would have been like.”

 

Mycroft stared at the detective. Gregory stared unabashedly back. The ginger-haired man realized suddenly that his migraine had gone.

 

“Very well,” he said softly. “I accept.”

 

Greg's brow creased. “You ...”

 

“My brother's gift. I accept. I will think of a suitable way to … _thank_ him later.”

 

The smile that spread across Greg Lestrade's face made Mycroft's heart flutter.

 

“You mean … we're boyfriends?”

 

“For the next 30 days, yes.” Mycroft shook his head in disbelief. “You and I are … in a relationship.”

 

“Bloody hell!” Lestrade breathed, his eyes wide. “I … wow. Wow!”

 

Mycroft had to fight to keep from grinning at the other man's excitement. “Indeed. We still have much to discuss. Do you have a busy afternoon?”

 

Lestrade's expression crumbled. “Fuck. Yeah. Loads of paperwork, a meeting with the other DI's, have something to do with the press, but I don't know what. I probably should have been back at the Yard a half-hour ago.”

 

“I see.” Mycroft picked up the phone. “Anthea? Yes. Please do ring the Chief Inspector at Scotland Yard and inform him that Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade will not be returning to the office today … Yes. He has a prior engagement with Her Majesty's government. Mmm … yes, I'm sure he shall. Lovely. Oh, I'd say in about 15 minutes. Thank you, my dear.”

 

Greg was snickering when Mycroft hung up the phone.

 

“Christ. I've never been with anyone who could do _that_. This is going to be _amazing_!”

 

“Just a perk of the position,” said Mycroft with a touch of modesty. “Now, you have time to have lunch with me. Are you hungry?”

 

“Starving. I've only had a half bag of stale crisps and that was this morning,” said Greg. “I thought it best not to have anything on my stomach before I came here.”

 

“Prudent. And fortunate for me. I always have my birthday lunch catered in. It's Uyghur cuisine this year. Delicacies from Northwest China.”

 

“Sounds … exotic.”

 

“It is, but it's also quite accessible and tasty. If you don't fancy it, we can order something else.”

 

“No, I'm sure it'll be good, and besides it's your birthday.” Greg smiled. “I'm excited to try it. Something tells me that I'm not going to be living on crisps and flat ale the next month, eh?”

 

“Indeed not. But we'll discuss that over our meal.”

 

Greg nodded and his eyes darkened. His mouth curved into an almost indecent smile.

 

“Er … fancy unwrapping your gift before the food gets here?”

 

Mycroft felt a flash of heat just under his belly and he hid a grin. “All in due time.”

 

Greg was laughing when Mycroft's mobile chimed. Grimacing a little, he pulled it out, sure of who'd sent the text. And he was right.

 

**Happy birthday, brother dear. DO. NOT. WASTE. A. MOMENT. - SH**

 

Smirking, Mycroft dropped his mobile back into his pocket. Perhaps he was wrong. Maybe his little brother loved him after all. He had only to wait and see.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure if I want to chronicle this by week or have an entry for each of the 30 days, so I'm setting this as a standalone but it will be the first chapter in the series. There will be another standalone chapter in this series before I decide whether do do it by week or by day. Sorry if this makes NO sense. Had too much caffeine.


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